


Clover

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous Sherlock Stories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3946741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock take in a young relative of John’s who has come from a bad situation, and Sherlock confronts the bad situation he also faced as a child. A few scenes, one unfinished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everyone meets Clover

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Sherlock opened the door at the knock, saw Sally Donovan and the rest of the forensics team standing there looking expectant, and immediately rolled his eyes and tried to shut the door again, as though that would make them all go away.

Donovan shoved herself against the door before it could close. “He’s resisting, sir,” she called over her shoulder, irritation mixed with triumph.

“That’s just his normal behavior,” Lestrade allowed, coming up from the back. “Don’t be stupid, Sherlock.” He offered the search warrant, which Sherlock refused to take, though he did step aside and let the police in.

“ _When_ are you going to stop wasting tax-payers’ dollars with this charade, Lestrade?” Sherlock demanded peevishly.

“When you stop taking evidence from the crime scenes,” Lestrade shot back.

“I didn’t!” Clearly Lestrade did not believe this. “If your own people are so incompetent as to _lose_ evidence, don’t blame _me_ ,” Sherlock snapped.

Anderson looked up from where he was pawing through the bookshelves. “You stole the lead pipe last week,” he pointed out indignantly. “You admitted it!”

“I’m shocked your memory extends back that far, Anderson,” Sherlock responded nastily. “Since you couldn’t remember to zip up your fly last time you went to the loo.” Reddening Anderson quickly turned away to fix this, while every other man in the room tried to check himself subtly.

“So you can see why you’re suspect number one in the disappearance of those fibers,” Lestrade concluded, “especially since you were so interested in them at the time.”

“Yes, I stole them so I could analyze them in my state-of-the-art forensics lab,” Sherlock replied scathingly, indicating the microscope and a few test tubes on the kitchen table. “Even _your_ people often manage simple, tedious tasks like fiber analysis.”

“Oh, was that a compliment?” Lestrade teased, without much humor behind it. As brilliant as Sherlock was, and as much help as he’d been on tough cases, you simply couldn’t trust him at all with the little things, like evidence and witnesses. Lestrade didn’t like barging in and turning his flat upside down—though some of his team certainly did—but he couldn’t let Sherlock get away with serious breaches in protocol, no matter what good he did. At least it wasn’t drugs that were missing this time.

“John’s not home, then?” Donovan commented, opening the door to the back stairs.

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly. “Don’t go up there,” he tried, plunging into the kitchen after her. Lestrade followed, a sinking feeling in his stomach—even if Sherlock _had_ stolen the evidence Lestrade anticipated he’d hidden it too well to be found. But he’d already promised himself that if they _did_ find it, he was going to have Sherlock arrested, no matter what excuses he gave.

“Of _course_ I’m going up there,” Donovan countered, half-expecting Sherlock to try and stop her, and slightly looking forward to it—that would mean charges for sure.

“Well, let me go first,” he proposed, as though this was a perfectly reasonable request. It was not, and Donovan hurried up the stairs to whatever it was he was trying to hide. “Donovan!” Sherlock snapped, on her heels. Lestrade quickly followed, the narrow staircase constricting his movements before he got to the top.

“Oh my G-d,” he heard Donovan gasp, followed by Sherlock’s angry, “Don’t you dare touch—“ and then a scream and sobbing—but not from Donovan, more like… a child.

“Back off!” Sherlock ordered fiercely, and then Donovan _did_ gasp in pain. Lestrade finally emerged onto the upstairs hallway and saw Donovan holding her arm, while Sherlock stood half-inside a doorway, carrying something Lestrade couldn’t quite see. When he moved finally Lestrade had the same reaction Donovan had. It was a little girl.

“Bloody h—l,” he exclaimed, completely in shock.

“She bit me,” Donovan complained, checking the wound on her arm.

“Good girl,” Sherlock praised the child, who clutched him tightly. “You grabbed her. She doesn’t like strangers.”

“I’ll call Child Services,” Donovan stated, assuming the worst.

“No—“

“Hang on,” Lestrade ordered Donovan, not assuming _quite_ the worst. “Give her here,” he ordered Sherlock.

“She doesn’t like strangers,” Sherlock repeated, making no move to hand her over.

“Give her to me right now,” Lestrade ordered soberly, “and explain where you got her, or you can explain to Child Services.”

Sherlock did a quick calculation and decided to go with the lesser of two evils. “Fine. Here.” The girl proved difficult to detach and immediately started crying in Lestrade’s arms. “You have to hold her—“

“I _know_ how to hold a child, Sherlock,” Lestrade informed him, trying to bounce her slightly. “I’ve got three at home.”

“Oh. Really?” Lestrade rolled his eyes and started to carry the girl back downstairs. “Well, this one’s different,” Sherlock insisted, following him closely. “She’s unique. You’re upsetting her!”

She wasn’t the only one who was upset, Lestrade noted with some surprise, watching the expression on Sherlock’s face as the girl reached out to him vainly. It was almost… pained. He stopped in the kitchen, even though the girl’s wailing had already attracted the attention of everyone else in the small flat, and tried to shift her around so he could look her over better. She was maybe six, with blond hair and blue eyes, and there was certainly nothing wrong with her lungs. “Hey there, sweetheart,” Lestrade said in a soothing tone. “Hi there. What’s your name, then?”

“She’s not going to fall for your clichéd manipulations, Lestrade,” Sherlock predicted disdainfully.

“I’m just trying to get her to calm down,” Lestrade shot back in irritation.

“Well give her back to me, then.”

“No, not until you explain where she came from.”

Sherlock sighed ungraciously. “She was given to John. Cousin’s child, taken away, mother unfit,” he rattled off. “There, can I have her back now?”

Lestrade had to admit he was getting tired of her kicking at him. “Here. But stay where I can see you,” he directed, indicating the living room.

Sherlock scoffed at this restriction but eagerly took the girl back, and she quieted as soon as she was settled on his hip. Even with her in his arms he managed to look dissolutely defiant as he leaned against the back of the couch.

“Got any documentation about her?” Lestrade tried.

“No, John takes care of all that,” Sherlock dismissed.

Of course. “Well what’s her name? You _do_ know that, at least, don’t you?”

Sherlock gave him a withering look. “Her name is _Clover_. I didn’t pick it, that’s the one she came with,” he added, directing a glare at someone who had snickered. “And I know a great deal about her. She likes peanut butter and toy ponies, though real ones are overwhelming, and she also intensely dislikes naptime and most vegetables. I agree on both points.”

Lestrade stared at him for a long moment, the surreal scene not computing in his head. “Where _is_ John?” he wanted to know, hoping _someone_ could make sense of all this.

“Shopping.”

“And left you to babysit,” Lestrade surmised, not sure he felt that was a good idea.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Hudson babysits. _I_ parent,” he corrected snidely. “Honestly, do you consider yourself babysitting your children when your wife is out?”

Lestrade opened his mouth to respond to that, but wasn’t sure which revelation to tackle first. Anderson beat him to it, though. “So which one of you’s the wife, then?” he sneered.

“Out,” Lestrade ordered him immediately. He was mostly certain that was just a dig at Sherlock, and not a general homophobic comment, but these days there could be zero tolerance for such remarks. All he needed was for Sherlock to decide to sue them. Anderson slunk out, Sherlock not delaying his retreat with a caustic retort—just a smug look.

“Well how long have you had her for?” Lestrade asked, trying to move on.

“About six weeks.”

The time frame seemed both too long and too short—too short for Sherlock to have gotten so attached to her, and too long for it to have escaped Lestrade’s attention. Then again, he’d apparently missed whenever John and Sherlock went from flatmates to co-parents. “Well, why’d you never mention her, then?” he wanted to know, more as a friendly question to pass the time than an official inquiry.

“Why would I?” Sherlock asked blankly. “I have John and the Internet. What value could you possibly add to our interaction?”

“Still don’t want me to call Child Services, sir?” Donovan asked darkly.

“No. Well, wait ‘til John gets home,” Lestrade sighed.

“Look at the back of her hands, and her shoes,” Sherlock was murmuring to the little girl, while nodding at Donovan. “What can we deduce about her morning activities from them?” Donovan did not stick around to hear it. “Now look at his tie,” Sherlock went on, indicating Lestrade. “Can you conclude what he had for lunch? I’ll give you a hint.”

Lestrade took mild comfort from the fact that the girl did not seem to be responding to Sherlock’s lessons, though it was a bit odd that she didn’t respond to anything at _all_. “Here, gimme that,” he ordered one of his people, who had turned up a rag doll. He held it up before the girl, twitching it cheerfully. “Hey there, sweetie, does this belong to you?” The girl made no move to take it and merely gazed at, or rather through, him with glassy eyes.

“What _are_ you doing, Lestrade?” Sherlock asked him, as if he genuinely had no clue but assumed it couldn’t be good.

“I’m just trying to get a normal reaction out of her,” Lestrade replied. “A smile or something.”

“Why would she _smile_ at you?” Sherlock questioned sharply. “You’re a stranger who grabbed her and made her cry, and now you’re torturing her doll in front of her.”

Lestrade stared at him, slightly frightened by his interpretation of events. “I’m just—I’m not—How can you talk like that in front of her?” he chided. “Torturing her doll, honestly… I’d let her have it if she’d take it. That would be _normal_.”

“She’s not _normal_ ,” Sherlock protested, clearly seeing this as a dirty word. “Normal is dull and predictable. Clover is extremely intelligent and disdainful of typical children’s activities.”

“Oh, _Clover’s_ disdainful, is she?” Lestrade commented dryly. “Why’s she even got a doll, then?”

“Well, John bought it,” Sherlock admitted. “Besides, she uses it as a vehicle for her empathy and nurturing skills. I’m told those are considered valuable by some people.”

“Bloody h—l,” Lestrade repeated with a sigh.

“We do try to have _slightly_ more intelligent discourse around her, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock complained frostily.

“Sorry.” He pulled out his phone. “I’m going to call John—“

“No need,” Sherlock predicted, right before the front door banged shut.

Moments later John appeared in the doorway of the flat, several shopping bags in his hands. “S—t,” he swore, looking around at the mess.

“John!” Sherlock protested, indicating Clover and her apparent sensitivities to vulgar discourse.

“What have you done now?” John demanded of him in irritation.

“Nothing!”

John looked to Lestrade for an alternate opinion. “Stolen evidence,” he answered.

“I did not!”

“But this is much more interesting,” Lestrade confessed, indicating the little girl.

John grimaced slightly, imagining the scene that must have erupted earlier. “Yes, I can explain—“

“Put the groceries away first, John,” Sherlock instructed. “You know Clover won’t drink the milk if it’s too warm.”

“No, Clover won’t,” John sighed, and Lestrade couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. He dodged the police who were ransacking his kitchen to store the perishables he’d just brought home and barely even blinked—a sign he was a little too used to this happening. “She’s my cousin’s daughter,” he called back in. “Excuse me, thanks. I think the bag of thumbs went in the freezer, actually.”

“Molly gave them to me,” Sherlock said when Lestrade shot him a look. “For Valentine’s Day. I didn’t realize that was a gift-giving occasion.”

John let out a snort from the kitchen. “My cousin Stacey’s daughter,” he repeated. “She and her boyfriend got into drugs and… Well, it wasn’t a good situation for a child,” John described. The vagueness left Lestrade to fill in the blanks on his own, at least until he got back to the office and looked it up.

“This is a better situation?” Lestrade was forced to ask as John joined them in the living room.

“I’m clean!” Sherlock scoffed, as if all that was ancient history.

John went slightly pale. “It’s not drugs he stole is it?”

“I didn’t steal anything!”

“No,” Lestrade assured him. “Little bag of fibers.”

John relaxed. “Well, he’s clean,” he told Lestrade matter-of-factly, as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken earlier. “And he knows exactly what would happen if he ever wasn’t.”

John addressed this to Lestrade; when the policeman glanced at Sherlock he saw the look of guilty discomfort cross his face. So it seemed like John had things well in hand there.

“They keep threatening to call Child Services, John,” Sherlock told him, trying to throw the blame back on Lestrade.

“Well, they won’t if you behave yourself,” John replied, in a reassuring tone. “Can I see her for a minute?”

“No.” John gave him a look and Sherlock reluctantly passed the girl over. He seemed somewhat lost without her, not sure what to do with his hands.

“Hello, sweetie,” John told her, kissing her forehead. She did not react, which at least meant she didn’t start screaming and kicking. “Did you miss me while I was out?”

“She bit Donovan,” Sherlock shared gleefully.

“What?” John was not as pleased.

“And kicked Lestrade several times,” he added. “Did you know he has four children?”

“Oh, I thought it was only three,” John mentioned politely.

“It is,” Lestrade assured him.

“Whatever,” Sherlock dismissed. “Spectacular defensive instincts. Could’ve been louder, though. Be _louder_ next time, Clover,” he instructed her.

“No offense, John,” Lestrade said to him, “but have you got any papers on her?”

“She’s not an illegal immigrant,” Sherlock scoffed. “She’s from _Scotland_.”

“Wales, actually,” John corrected, “and yes, I do.” He headed towards a filing cabinet near the window.

“Well, leave her here,” Sherlock demanded.

John did not look at him as he opened the cabinet and fished out a folder with one hand. “Am I running off to Cuba with her? No, I’m on the other side of the room,” he pointed out evenly. “Take a breath.”

Lestrade was impressed to notice Sherlock actually _did_ take a deep breath, though he let it out as a sharp sigh. “Six weeks, I heard,” Lestrade mentioned.

“Yeah, sorry, meant to tell you,” John replied, walking the folder back over. “Bit busy with all the court dates. Sherlock keeps getting threatened with contempt and all.”

“Family court judges are morons,” he claimed.

“Sherlock’s an expert on family law now,” John deadpanned as Lestrade looked through the legal documents. “And also child psychology. Isn’t that right, Clover?”

“If you’re going to use that insipid tone with her, at least speak Ancient Greek,” Sherlock insisted, “so she can _learn_ something.”

“It’s been very interesting,” John concluded dryly, and Lestrade didn’t know whether he ought to smirk at that or not.

“She doesn’t like the swaying,” Sherlock judged.

“No? Well, you want to go back to Uncle Sherlock, then?” John asked the girl. “He stands _very_ still.”

“You pull off _patronizing_ very well, John,” Sherlock told him, taking Clover back. It was not a compliment but John laughed anyway.

“Learned from the best,” he noted.

Lestrade gestured John off to the side a bit and handed him back the folder. “This gonna be permanent?” he asked quietly.

“The way Stacey’s life is going, yes,” John admitted. He had conflicting feelings about this. “I’m glad Sherlock’s taken to her, though. Could’ve gone very badly.”

“It’s a bit weird,” Lestrade commented seriously, dancing around an unpleasant topic. “With him. He seems quite… attached to her.”

John’s eyebrows shot up as he realized what Lestrade was getting at. “No, it’s fine—He’s, um—It’s not weird—I mean—“ He took a breath. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t be here with her for a _second_ if—“

“Well, it’s just not what I would’ve expected,” Lestrade told him, refusing to sound apologetic.

John nodded slowly and seemed to debate whether to tell him something. Then he pulled Lestrade even further away from everyone else and lowered his voice more. “You know anything about his childhood?” he asked, and Lestrade shook his head quickly. “I think it was not good,” John confided, his tone suggesting this was quite an understatement. “I think he identifies with her a lot.” His voice became more normal. “He can figure out what she wants, just from observing her. Quite extraordinary. Blows the counselors away every time. She doesn’t talk, by the way,” John added, “or respond much.”

“Oh,” Lestrade realized. “That’s normal for her?”

“Well, usual,” John qualified. “It could be trauma, or it could be something like autism—Stacey never had her checked for anything, so…” They watched Sherlock point out something to a seemingly oblivious Clover. “He says if she starts talking again, she’s going to be the most brilliant person in the room. Well, except for _him_ , of course,” he added dryly.

“Of course,” Lestrade agreed.

“Listen,” John began, “is this gonna go on for much—“

“John!” Sherlock summoned. “Clover’s hungry. She wants some peanut butter.”

“Oh good,” John replied, walking back over to him. He gave up the girl without protest this time. “Finally _I_ get to spend some time with you.”

“John handles all the biological functions,” Sherlock explained dismissively.

“Lucky me.” John carried the girl into the kitchen and sighed when he saw the state of it. “Sherlock, honestly, I need my flat back,” he warned.

Sherlock made a noise of resignation and Lestrade zoomed in on him. “I knew it,” he declared, albeit with some disappointment. “Alright, where’ve you hidden it?”

“I didn’t steal it,” Sherlock insisted once again. “But, I may have noticed where it fell, when it fell out of the box.”

“Oh for G-d’s sake,” Lestrade snapped. “Are you saying it’s back at the crime scene? Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“It’s not _my_ job to make up for your people’s incompetence,” Sherlock repeated loftily, and Lestrade resisted the urge to punch him. “It’s not important anyway, it’s from the victim’s own car.”

“Get your coat,” Lestrade ordered. “Clear out, you lot. Back to the scene. Let’s go,” he prompted Sherlock.

“It’s in the southwest corner, near the drainpipe—“

“You’re coming with,” Lestrade clarified, foisting his coat on him. “And you’re gonna stay in the car until we see if you’re right or not.” Clearly Sherlock found this a great trial. Well, he should’ve thought of that before he decided to keep his mouth shut. “And if we can’t find it, I’m going to arrest you anyway,” he threatened.

“On what charge?” Sherlock scoffed.

“I’ll think of one,” Lestrade promised. “Wasting police time comes to mind.”

Sherlock sighed. “Going out,” he called to John in the kitchen, as if that wasn’t obvious.

“Bring back Chinese if you’re not in jail,” John responded, handing Clover a spoonful of peanut butter. “I’ll be too busy cleaning up this mess to cook dinner.”

“Um, sorry,” Lestrade finally told him. John was a good sort, questionable taste though.

“Oh, it’s not _your_ fault,” John assured him, giving Sherlock a look.

“Chinese, right,” Sherlock agreed quickly.


	2. Clover has a nightmare

John thumped down the stairs quickly and into Sherlock’s bedroom, where the other man was sprawled across the bed asleep. “Sherlock, wake up,” John told him, touching his bare shoulder. “Get up. Put something on.”

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock demanded, as he hurriedly pulled on some pajamas. He was far more awake than John would have been, had his sleep been abruptly interrupted. “Is Clover—“

“Come see about her,” John told him worriedly. He didn’t want to be _too_ alarming, maybe it was nothing. “I don’t know what’s happened to her, if it’s normal or—“

Sherlock sprinted up the steps ahead of him, needing no further prompting. Clover lay on her side in bed, arms limp, eyes glassy, and didn’t look at Sherlock when he called her name. He knelt down on the floor, studying her intently.

“Pulse and breathing are okay,” John reported. “But she’s totally non-responsive, not even—“

“She had a bad dream,” Sherlock deduced.

“What?”

“A nightmare. We need to make her feel secure,” he decided, pulling the covers back and picking her up.

“I didn’t hear anything,” John said, feeling very guilty as he followed Sherlock downstairs. “Clover, did you call for us? You can knock on the bedroom door next time you have a bad dream,” he tried to tell her. “Maybe we should get a monitor to put in her room—“

“She stays very quiet during nightmares,” Sherlock claimed. He swept into his bedroom and immediately climbed onto the bed. John did not ask how he’d made this determination. “Get on her other side,” Sherlock instructed. “Clover, you are now safe and secure,” he told her in a serious tone.

John went with a different approach, stroking her hair as he lay behind her. “It’s alright, Clover, you’re just fine,” he said soothingly. “It was just a dream, it’s not real.”

“Even if it represented something in your past,” Sherlock added, “John and I will make sure it never happens again.”

“That’s right,” John agreed. “We won’t let anything bad happen to you, Clover.” He knew Sherlock was worried when the other man didn’t even comment on the realistic limitations of that promise. “Is she warm enough?” he fussed, tugging the covers up over her shoulder. “Maybe I should get her doll—“

“Clover would prefer you stay here, John,” Sherlock insisted, so he did, whether it was really Clover who had that preference or not.

Gradually the little girl started to squirm a bit, which was better than just lying there like a discarded toy, and curled up more against Sherlock. “I think she’s alright now, John,” he judged.

“Well, good.” He kissed the back of her head. “You don’t have to be quiet when something scares you, Clover,” he tried to tell her. “You can come and get us.”

“And I would advise you to be loud, quite loud, when frightened,” Sherlock added. “It can serve as a deterrent if someone’s trying to harm you. In fact, you should—“ He frowned. “She’s asleep.”

John tried not to grin. “Well, don’t take it personally,” he advised. “She was probably awake for a long time.”

“The lesson will be out of context later,” Sherlock griped, but quietly, and readjusted himself to a more comfortable position with Clover in his arms. “Where are you going?” he asked when John started to slip from the bed.

John thought it was obvious. “Well—errands, chores.” At least he didn’t have to go into work today.

“Stay here.”

“Is that for Clover’s benefit?” John teased slightly, scooting back under the blankets.

“Naturally. Don’t jostle so much,” Sherlock chastised.

“Sorry.”


	3. The revelation about Sherlock's past

Clover was not intimidated by the imposing Whitehall edifice, the armed guards inside, the soaring hallways, the heavy doors watched by sober secretaries. She was six, and not quite right; John tried to at least not show his own nerves in front of her. Sherlock was equally unruffled, striding comfortably through the halls with her looking over his shoulder; John got to carry the pink princess backpack.

They entered Mycroft’s office when bidden and he rose behind the desk. “Sherlock, John,” he greeted. “And this must be Clover.”

“Excellent deduction,” Sherlock replied acidly. “Clover, this is my brother, Mycroft,” he introduced, turning her around. “That makes him your uncle.” Mycroft’s eyebrow rose slightly at this conclusion. “And that’s just Anthea, feel free to ignore her.” Rolling his eyes Mycroft signaled to his assistant that she could go.

They all sat, three chairs having been pulled up in front of Mycroft’s desk. Sherlock settled Clover in the middle and began pulling out paper and crayons for her. “John, how is the case against your cousin proceeding?” Mycroft asked professionally.

John filled him in while Sherlock held Clover’s crayons and encouraged her to draw something. John suspected Mycroft could find out whatever details he wanted all on his own, and was mainly using these questions as an excuse to observe Sherlock’s interaction with the girl.

“And what do the doctors say about Clover?” Mycroft went on.

“Doctors,” Sherlock muttered in response. It was not complimentary, and both John and Mycroft looked at him. “They poke at her for two minutes and make a diagnosis,” he went on scornfully. “They don’t know what’s really going on inside her head.”

“And you do?” Mycroft surmised, with mild skepticism.

“Sherlock’s taken to Clover very well,” John swooped in quickly, not wanting Sherlock to get worked up in front of her. Mycroft was very good at inspiring fury in his younger brother, even by doing very little. “He really seems to know what she’s trying to say.”

“She’s very intelligent,” Sherlock asserted, watching her as she colored intently, “and there’s nothing at all wrong with her.”

“I understand she doesn’t speak,” Mycroft directed at John.

“Um, no, not as yet,” John admitted. Sherlock was whispering something in the girl’s ear and gazing narrowly at Mycroft. “It’s hard to say why. Stacey wasn’t the most attentive mother so we don’t know if she’s _never_ really spoken, or if it’s something new.” Sherlock handed her a yellow crayon as she stared at several and she started scribbling with it. “Of course, she doesn’t really _need_ to talk,” he added dryly, “since Sherlock anticipates her every need.”

“Most people say a lot of foolish and unnecessary things just to fill the silence,” Sherlock judged. “And lie, as well. Physical communication is much more pure.” He handed her the green crayon.

John gave Mycroft a look. “Anyway that school you suggested seems to be working out well,” he went on gratefully. He was certain they couldn’t have secured a place for her so quickly—or afforded the tuition—if Mycroft hadn’t helped out. “Her teacher says she’s making a lot of progress.”

“I don’t see why she _has_ to go to school,” Sherlock opined, and John rolled his eyes.

“We’ve talked about this,” he reminded him lightly.

“I could teach her everything she needs to know,” Sherlock claimed confidently.

“You don’t even know all of the planets,” John countered.

“I said, _needs_ to know,” Sherlock emphasized in a superior tone. “She hardly _needs_ to know a lot of the drivel schools insist upon teaching.”

“I suppose you would teach her how to read blood splatter patterns and deduce someone’s profession from their socks,” John sighed tolerantly.

“Far more practical than planets and kings and poems about stars,” Sherlock derided, referring to a recent homework assignment he’d found appalling.

“I like poems about stars,” John said mildly.

“There could be _some_ poetry,” Sherlock reversed, without noticeable discomfort, and John smiled faintly.

“Anyway, I think she’s doing really well, considering,” John decided, addressing Mycroft. “Clover, don’t put the crayons in your mouth,” he added to the girl, then shot a look at Sherlock, who had been watching her do it. “You’re just going to let her eat crayons, then?”

“How else will she know what they taste like, John?” he asked reasonably. “She has to investigate her world. And the box says they’re non-toxic.”

“You did notice that, then?”

“Well, we wouldn’t _give_ her anything toxic, would we?”

John knew Mycroft was watching them keenly and resisted remarking on all of Sherlock’s experimental materials. Granted, he _had_ been better about keeping them put up out of Clover’s reach. And unless she was playing in her room Sherlock was usually watching her intently anyway.

“Sorry,” John said to Mycroft after a moment, though the man didn’t appear impatient, “you wanted to see us about something, didn’t you?”

“He just wanted to _see_ us,” Sherlock stated, his tone indicating he was not fooled by his brother’s distraction techniques.

Mycroft smiled tolerantly. “I visited Mummy this weekend,” he reported in response. “She’s hoping all of you will go up to see her sometime.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, thank you,” John told him, when it looked like Sherlock wasn’t going to.

“Clover doesn’t like going new places,” Sherlock claimed unhelpfully.

“Clover will adapt,” John assured him firmly, “if you don’t discourage her.”

Sherlock looked hurt. “I wouldn’t _discourage_ her,” he claimed, in a more general sense. “Here, look at what she’s drawn,” he went on, as though it was somehow proof.

John leaned over to look at the drawing. “Oh, that’s very nice, Clover,” he praised her, although he had no idea what it was. “Um, is it a tree?”

“It’s an abstract geometrical pattern, John,” Sherlock corrected, his tone suggesting this should be obvious.

Which it _was_ , once he knew that six-year-olds liked to draw such things. “Oh, right. That’s quite good, very pretty.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, because John clearly wasn’t getting it, and turned the paper around to face Mycroft, giving him a challenging look. After a moment understanding dawned. “Oh, I see,” he realized. “It’s my tie.” John looked between Mycroft’s tie and the pattern Clover had drawn, seeing the resemblance only after much comparison.

“She’s now accepted you as part of her worldview,” Sherlock announced proudly. “See, I’m not _discouraging_ her.”

“I stand corrected,” John agreed, though honestly he wasn’t really sure what one thing had to do with the other.

Mycroft stared at the drawing thoughtfully for a long moment, then returned it. “Very flattering,” he told Clover, with an ill-used smile. She stared at him, unnervingly, then started drawing something new.

“That’s very sweet, Clover,” John told her.

“It’s not a moral judgment,” Sherlock corrected briskly.

“Sorry.”

Mycroft seemed to hesitate for a moment—unusual for him—then opened a drawer in his desk and pulled something out. “I picked this up when I was at Mummy’s,” he conveyed, and he slid the piece of paper in front of Sherlock.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” John commented, leaning over. It appeared to be a child’s drawing, another abstract geometrical pattern, perhaps of plaid. “When is this—“ Then he noticed that Sherlock had gone very, very still, staring at the drawing with unfocused eyes. He took a sudden, sharp breath, as though he’d forgotten to breathe earlier. “Sherlock?” John asked in concern.

Abruptly the other man stood and walked away to the other end of the room, putting his back to them. John looked to Mycroft for an explanation, alarmed and slightly angry at him for upsetting Sherlock, but the elder Holmes had a sober, faraway expression that did not invite question. So John left Clover in her seat and went after Sherlock.

He approached cautiously, not wanting to startle him. Sherlock was gripping the back of a chair like he wouldn’t stay upright without it, and his other hand was balled into a fist. His breaths were quick and deliberate as he tried to calm himself, and when he heard John come up behind him he tensed even more.

“Sherlock?” He turned his head slightly and John took that as acknowledgement, walking around to face him. “What’s wrong? What was that picture about?” He reached up to touch Sherlock’s cheek, which was ice cold and taut from him clenching his teeth. The blue eyes that flickered briefly to John’s held an emotion he didn’t recognize at first, he saw it so rarely—fear.

“Sherlock, sit down,” John decided, less hesitant now that he knew the other man was in no state to take care of himself. He took his arms and pulled him around to sit in the high-backed chair, facing little resistance which worried him even more. John knelt in front of him, rubbing his cold hands. “Sherlock? Talk to me. Did you draw that picture? How old were you? Hey.” He shook him lightly. “How old were you?”

Sherlock tried to straighten up and bring himself back to the present, a visible effort. “Mmm, I don’t know,” he claimed at first. “Five or-or six, maybe.” He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably, as if preparing to delete or at least suppress whatever he’d been thinking of.

“No,” John warned him sharply, and their eyes locked. “Tell me about it.” Sherlock started to scoff defensively, if shakily. “Sherlock.” John went with soft sincerity this time. “The pattern you drew. Who did it belong to?” He was beginning to understand why Mycroft had brought it.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock confessed, and this seemed genuine. “Counselor or social worker or something. In some horrible room that was supposed to seem friendly and safe.”

“Okay,” John encouraged. “Why were you talking to a social worker?”

“The room was in a hospital,” Sherlock answered instead, as though he was standing in that particular room once again, but looking around with an adult’s eyes. “In the hospital. I was supposed to draw a picture of my family but he, or maybe she—she was wearing this shirt with a pattern—“

“The plaid pattern,” John agreed. “Why were you talking to a social worker at the hospital?”

“I didn’t know who to draw in the family picture,” Sherlock explained, like he still couldn’t figure it out, and it troubled him. “Mummy, of course. But Mycroft was always away at school. And Father—“ He hesitated a long moment. “I didn’t _want_ to include him,” he finally confessed, whispering it like a secret. “But he would get so angry if I didn’t…”

Something cold began to form in the pit of John’s stomach and he fought to keep his voice even. “Did Father get angry a lot?” he asked carefully.

Sherlock shrugged and nodded at the same time. “Yes, he was _frequently_ angry,” he agreed, and for a second he sounded like himself again, dry and disdainful. “I wasn’t supposed to be there. They’d only agreed to one.”

“Oh,” John commented with sudden realization. “You mean Mycroft. And then you were a… surprise.” He’d always wondered how there ended up being such a large age difference between Sherlock and his brother.

“A very unwelcome surprise.” He sounded derisive, but no more so than he usually did when talking about his family, or _any_ family, really. “And eventually he left,” Sherlock added off-hand.

John’s eyebrows rose and he wondered if he was getting the story all wrong in his head, erroneously assuming the worst. “Your father left you and your mother,” he repeated. Which was bad enough really, especially for a small child. “Was that why you were talking to a counselor?”

“Mycroft _made_ him leave,” Sherlock corrected himself, not really listening to John. “He came home from school in the middle of the term, and came to visit me in the hospital.”

John tensed again and tried to make himself stay calm. “Why were you in the hospital?”

“I think I broke something,” Sherlock remembered. “Probably Grandmother’s china or crystal, Father was always going on about how important it was—“ He paused as if trying to recall this detail.

John cleared his throat, which was suddenly dry and tight. “Sherlock, did your father hit you for breaking the china? Enough to put you in the hospital? When you were five or six?”

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened on his, intense but wonderfully present. “Isn’t that what I just _said_?”

“You didn’t actually _say_ ,” John pointed out carefully.

“Oh.”

When he didn’t continue John went on, “And then Mycroft came home from school, and made him leave. So you would be safe.”

“I must’ve drawn the picture _before_ that,” Sherlock reasoned abstractly, “or I wouldn’t have worried about whether to include him, he just didn’t make sense with the things he got angry about, so I couldn’t ever figure out what to do, breaking something is obvious I suppose, but wearing too many different colors? What does that even _mean_ , I didn’t even really pick out my own clothes—“

“Hey.” John silenced his ramble by reaching up to cup his cheek. “You’re alright now,” he reminded him quietly. “He’s dead and he’s not going to hurt you anymore.” And if John had a time machine he would go back and grab that little boy and run like h—l.

“Of _course_ he’s dead,” Sherlock replied coldly, but then sniffled slightly, which John found terrifying because Sherlock didn’t cry, _ever_. “And even if he weren’t I’m not a child anymore, I’m fully capable of—“ He interrupted himself, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the chair, as if trying to make sure his statement was actually true before continuing.

Mycroft glanced up from where he was making suggestions for Clover’s drawing. “I think Sherlock needs you,” he told her quietly. Without actually acknowledging him she slipped out of her chair and headed over to the two men.

She stopped beside them silently and John tried to smile at her. “Hey there, sweetie,” he said. “Are you doing okay with Uncle Mycroft? Are you getting hungry?” He would have to talk to Sherlock more about this later—and not let him shrug it off, or worse, succeed in deleting it.

Clover started to climb onto Sherlock’s lap and John wondered if he should stop her. Then Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he gathered Clover up in his arms tightly. “You can’t let anyone take her away, John,” he whispered fiercely.

“I won’t,” John promised, scooting closer to embrace them both. “I won’t. We’ll be alright.”


	4. Lestrade visits under happier circumstances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished

There was a knock on the front door, which Mrs. Hudson answered. “John, visitor,” Sherlock alerted, not moving from his chair.

“I know,” John assured him, having put the kettle on already.

Footsteps on the stairs, then a knock at their own door. “John, door.”

“I _know_ ,” John repeated. “You couldn’t get it yourself, could you?”

“No.” John made a noise of exasperation and abandoned his tea preparations. “I’m watching Clover,” Sherlock protested.

“You don’t _literally_ have to watch her every second,” John pointed out, crossing to the door.

“I wasn’t, I looked up at you just now,” Sherlock told him. Then he went back to staring at Clover, who was putting a puzzle together on the floor. He sat with his feet drawn up in the chair, arms wrapped around them, and chin resting on his knees, as though afraid any sudden movement or intrusion into her space would disturb the girl.

John rolled his eyes and opened the door. “Hi, Greg, come in,” he greeted, shaking hands.

“Hello, John,” the Detective Inspector replied. “Nice to see you again.”

Sherlock gave him an unenthusiastic glance, still slightly bitter about the (not) stolen evidence escapade. “What are _you_ doing here?” he asked peevishly.

“Sherlock!” John chastised. “We invited him for tea.”

“Oh. Did we?”

“Yes, I told you two days ago!” John gestured for Greg to have a seat and went back to the kitchen.

“Did I acknowledge it with multiple syllables?” Sherlock wanted to know. “Go around the back of the couch, and sit there,” he directed Greg, sending him to the opposite chair. “It doesn’t count if I didn’t use multiple syllables.”

Greg took the long way around to his seat, per instructions, instead of cutting through Clover’s play area. “Well hey there, sweetie,” he said to the girl, who was watching him warily. “You remember me from the other day, then?”

“You met Detective Inspector Lestrade a few weeks ago,” Sherlock informed her, “when they searched the flat. Generally he’s harmless, if irritating.”

“Sherlock!” John chided again, carrying the tea tray in. “Sorry, he hasn’t had his nap yet,” he apologized to Greg dryly.

“Nah, I’m used to it,” Greg dismissed.

John set the tray down on a side table and began fixing a cup. “How’s your family doing?” he inquired. “Sorry, how old are your kids again?”

“Doing well,” Greg assured him. “Amelia is eleven, Henry nine, and Beatrice is six.”

“Oh, that’s great,” John enthused. “That’s a nice spread. Close enough to play together. Harry was too much younger than me to be a proper playmate. Also—a girl,” he added, and Greg smirked knowingly.

“Yeah, it’s good, Amelia’s getting to be quite a big help with the others—“

“No, not a record, but there were extenuating circumstances,” Sherlock was telling Clover. “You were interrupted. Do you want to try again?”

“Do you want to play with another toy, Clover?” John asked her instead. “You’ve got a whole box full.”

Instead the little girl scattered the pieces of her puzzle across the floor, then began gathering them back up for reassembly. “She’s still studying this puzzle,” Sherlock claimed. “Tea?” He held out his hand without looking up and John sighed and brought him a cup.

“You go toy shopping for her?” Greg asked pleasantly. “That must’ve been fun.”

“Not with _him_ along,” John refuted lightly, indicating Sherlock. “A day earlier he’d never even _heard_ of half the toys, but now suddenly he’s got an opinion on every one. Usually negative.”

“Most modern toys stifle children’s imaginations and decrease their ability to think abstractly and overcome obstacles,” Sherlock assessed, watching Clover with great interest. “Hence many of society’s problems, such as crime, poverty, and stupidity.”

“Hence, your job,” Greg pointed out brightly, and Sherlock actually glanced up at him for a moment.

“Well, yes,” he admitted. Then he went back to studying the girl.


	5. Sherlock visits Clover at school

“Maybe we should do this on a different day,” Sherlock suggested.

To someone else he might have appeared perfectly reasonable, but John just rolled his eyes and tugged on his hand. “No, we’re doing this today,” he insisted. “Come on.”

They approached the front door of the school, where any number of cars and people were congregating and maneuvering. “It just seems rather crowded today,” Sherlock pointed out, hanging back a bit.

John tugged more forcefully. “It’s always like this,” he explained.

“Oh. Really? That seems very chaotic. It’s not a good idea to—“ He stopped talking when John turned and gave him a look.

“I’m not going to drag you in,” John told him, as both reassurance and a warning. “If you don’t want to come in, catch a taxi, I’ll meet you at home.”

For a moment he thought Sherlock might actually go with that option. “Did you _tell_ her I was coming?” he asked of John.

“No,” John admitted after a moment. He hadn’t wanted to get Clover’s hopes up, in case Sherlock bailed. Sherlock seemed to realize this and looked slightly wounded; but John wasn’t going to apologize—Sherlock had bailed before.

Then he set his jaw and threw his shoulders back. “Fine. Let’s go,” Sherlock snapped, taking John’s hand and leading _him_ to the door.

John tried to conceal his smile. “We’re not going into battle. It’s just a school.”

“I hated school,” Sherlock told him, which was not exactly a surprise.

They marched up the stairs and into the main hallway, dodging parents and children. It was a special school, for children who needed extra help—physically, mentally, emotionally. There were a lot of wheelchairs and crutches, children who walked with odd gaits or sobbed because they didn’t want to walk at all. John had gotten used to it; but he could see how it wouldn’t make the best impression right now, and he drew Sherlock off to the side, watching his eyes dart from movement to movement like he expected an attack.

“Let’s just wait over here for a moment,” John suggested in a calming tone. “You’re right, end of the day is always chaos. We’ll wait until it’s quieter.” Though noise and chaos didn’t _usually_ bother Sherlock. “Do you feel like someone is going to make you stand at the blackboard and do the times tables aloud?” he asked.

Sherlock gave him a sharp look, which to John said _yes_. “I _know_ the times tables.”

John rolled his eyes. “Capitals of Europe, then,” he corrected, guessing Sherlock wouldn’t have found all of them important.

“That would be extremely unlikely,” Sherlock replied acidly.

John ignored the tone. “Yeah, I felt the same way at first,” he admitted. “Hasn’t happened.”

“So far,” he thought he heard Sherlock mutter, and John smiled and squeezed his hand.

The crowd started to thin out and John judged the timing right to move away from the wall. “Come on.” Clover’s classroom was around the corner and there were only a few parents and children left inside. John had a passing acquaintance with them just from picking up their children at the same time, but he wasn’t sure Sherlock was in the mood to be introduced to everyone.

John towed him over to the teacher’s desk. “Sherlock, this is Mrs. Mal—“ Sherlock and Clover spotted each other at the same time, and she stopped trying to put her shoes on and raced into his arms excitedly. He scooped her up automatically and spun around.

“I missed you!” he told her. “It’s so boring without you at home. I solved a murder today but it was a very easy one, Lestrade should be ashamed. And, I think I’ve identified a new species of mold, but the British Museum won’t return my calls. What did _you_ do all day? Did you learn the capitals of Europe?”

“That’s Sherlock,” John explained to Mrs. Mallory. “He’s, well…” He wasn’t sure exactly what label to use. Sherlock didn’t really like labels.

“Oh, how nice to finally meet him,” Mrs. Mallory said generously, considering they hadn’t technically been introduced yet. “Nice to put a face to the name.”

“Mmm, yes,” John agreed carefully. Sherlock was very fond of sending notes to school with Clover, usually criticizing some aspect of the teaching. “He’s, um, not really into traditional education structures.”

“Bad experiences as a child?” Mrs. Mallory guessed sagely, as Sherlock and Clover stared intently into a butterfly cage hanging from the ceiling. “We see that a lot here, don’t worry about it.”

“John, come and see these insects,” Sherlock summoned. “You told me she shouldn’t study insects at home, well look what they’re doing here.”

“I told you not to bring home ants in a butter tub for her to study,” John clarified, joining them. “Oh, cocoons, that’s very interesting. What will happen to the cocoon, Clover?”

“John, please, she studied the entire lifecycle of the butterfly last week,” Sherlock scoffed. “There were several worksheets about it.”

“Maybe you could let her answer, then,” John suggested dryly.

There was a pause as Clover gazed into the cage. “See?” Sherlock said after a moment, as if his point was proven. John raised his eyebrows questioningly. “She’s looking at the butterfly,” he pointed out.

John took his word for it. “That’s right, very good,” he praised, not sure which one had actually earned it. Though considering Sherlock’s previously woeful lack of knowledge on the lifecycle of non-scavenger insects, John supposed it was a learning experience for him as well.

Clover darted away suddenly, pulling on Sherlock’s hand, and he followed her to the windowsill, where paper cups of dirt were growing grass in the sunshine. “Oh, that’s cute,” John said of the faces crudely drawn on the cups.

“What the h—l is that?” Sherlock asked in suspicious confusion.

“Sherlock!” John hissed, glancing over at Mrs. Mallory. “The grass is like hair. You see? The faces?”

“That is bizarre,” Sherlock declared, not discreetly. “Clover, I’m not sure you should be participating in such _avant garde_ art projects.”

“Are you saying her capacity for abstract thinking is limited?” John challenged.

Sherlock glanced at him—John struggled to stay serious—and then at Clover, who gave him a slightly disapproving look. “Mmm. Which one’s yours?” he demurred. “Wait, I’ll figure it out.” He pointed to one wobbly face, blue eyes dancing above a fat pink mouth. He was apparently correct. “Well, I’m glad your curriculum emphasizes science, anyway,” he decided. “Though I think chemistry and basic physics, as well as human anatomy, would be more useful than plant biology.”

“Maybe next year,” John deadpanned. “Well, we really ought to go now,” he added reluctantly, as Clover started to walk Sherlock over to the book corner. She gave him a disappointed look. “I know, you’ve got lots to show Sherlock, haven’t you? Well maybe he’ll pick you up from school again sometime,” he suggested. “Come and put your shoes on.”

Sherlock let John handle this—dressing was deemed a biological function—and stared around the rest of the classroom judgmentally. Mrs. Mallory took the opportunity to join them. “Hello, I’m Clover’s teacher,” she introduced cheerfully.

“Obviously,” Sherlock agreed, though not in a mean way. “Midlands raised but you’ve spent considerable time overseas, probably some kind of non-profit work in an impoverished country. But the healthcare’s better in England. Statistically you’ve a good chance of living to at least eighty-five with your condition, especially now that your husband’s stopped smoking.”

Mrs. Mallory blinked at him. “Um, yeah, sorry,” John said awkwardly. “He does that.” Sherlock frowned at him.

Mrs. Mallory smiled unexpectedly. “Botswana,” she confirmed to Sherlock. “Teaching English to remote villages.”

This was not something that was going to impress him, of course. “I have some concerns about your overemphasis of defunct religious systems,” Sherlock told her seriously.

“Time to go,” John interrupted briskly, before Sherlock could expound on the pointlessness of Greek mythology. He picked up Clover, knowing Sherlock would follow. “Good-bye, Mrs. Mallory, see you tomorrow.”


End file.
